t me
And after bite me; then like hedgehogs, which
Lie tumbling in my barefoot way, and mount
Their pricks[411-6] at my foot-fall; sometime am I
All wound with adders, who with cloven tongues
Do hiss me into madness. Lo, now, lo!
Here comes a spirit of his; and to torment me
For bringing wood in slowly. I'll fall flat:
Perchance he will not mind me.[411-7]

_Enter TRINCULO._

_Trin._ Here's neither bush nor shrub, to bear off[411-8] any weather at
all, and another storm brewing; I hear it sing i' the wind: yond same
black cloud, yond huge one, looks like a foul bombard[411-9] that would
shed his liquor. If it should thunder as it did before, I know not where
to hide my head: yond same cloud cannot choose but fall by
pailfuls.--What have we here? a man or a fish? Dead or alive? A fish: he
smells like a fish; a very ancient and fish-like smell; a kind of
not-of-the-newest poor-john.[411-10] A strange fish! Were I in England
now, as once I was, and had but this fish painted, not a holiday fool
there but would give a piece of silver: there would this monster make a
man; any strange beast there makes a man:[411-11] when they will not
give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a
dead Indian. Legg'd like a man! and his fins like arms! Warm, o' my
troth! I do now let loose my opinion; hold it no longer: this is no
fish, but an islander, that hath lately suffered by a thunder-bolt.
[_Thunder._] Alas, the storm is come again! my best way is to creep
under his gaberdine;[412-12] there is no other shelter hereabout: misery
acquaints a man with strange bed-fellows. I will here shroud till the
dregs of the storm be past.

[_Creeps under CALIBAN'S garment._

_Enter STEPHANO, singing; a bottle in his hand._

Steph. _I shall no more to sea, to sea,
Here shall I die ashore;--_

This is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man's funeral: well, here's my
comfort. [_Drinks._

[Sings.] _The master, the swabber,[412-13] the boatswain, and I,
The gunner, and his mate,
Loved Mall, Meg, and Marian, and Margery,
But none of us cared for Kate;
For she had a tongue with a tang,[412-14]
Would cry to a sailor, _Go hang!
_She loved not the savour of tar nor of pitch:
Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang!_

This is a scurvy tune too: but here's my comf